


Attention Seeking Behavior

by PacificRimbaud



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, Rare Pair Spring Fling, Spring Fling 2020, Summer Camp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23938420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacificRimbaud/pseuds/PacificRimbaud
Summary: "When, against our better judgment, everyone within hearing range has given Josh the attention he craves, we can all see that he’s pointing. Everyone, except Neville, glances reflexively towards the wide and meticulously maintained gray plank dock to the west of the cordoned swim area.I try not to, but as I said: it’s a reflex.She’s wearing a white bikini. She has two of them. White bikinis. And breasts, obviously."
Relationships: Narcissa Black Malfoy/Percy Weasley
Comments: 43
Kudos: 140
Collections: RPSF 2020: Summer Camp





	Attention Seeking Behavior

It's a Tuesday, and I'm walking down to the lake for the aquatics inspection that I conduct each afternoon at 2:15 p.m. I’ve found it’s the time where, following lunch and the rising heat, the attention of both staff and campers to lakeside water safety may be less than adequate.

My presence serves both as a reminder of expectations and as a second layer of supervision, and on a personal level, it’s one of my favorite parts of the day.

When I come down to the lake this afternoon, Neville is on rotation at the lifeguard station. He is, as expected, wearing his camp-issued uniform, and I make a deeply satisfying X with my favorite pen—a silver Papermate Double Heart which writes beautifully and feels perfectly weighted in the hand—over the very first box on my checklist.

Whistle. Name tag. Sunglasses. Rescue tube. Fanny pack.

The vertical row of crisp, blunt-tipped marks across each box means he’s doing his job, which means that I’ve done mine.

It’s 83 degrees today, with no cloud cover, and my glasses slip incrementally down the bridge of my nose.

“Her boobs are amazing.”

Everyone standing near the lifeguard station, with the exception of Neville, turns and looks at Josh. This was precisely Josh’s point.

Pansy’s standing right next to him and I think that she literally, physically bites her tongue.

I consider what it would take to go through the process of mentally selecting and then actually articulating the word “boobs”. It’s an extraordinary thought. But Josh is 12, and he’s Josh, and Josh _in particular_ is the absolute worst sort of 12 year-old imaginable.

When, against our better judgment, everyone within hearing range has given Josh the attention he craves, we can all see that he’s pointing. Everyone, except Neville, glances reflexively towards the wide and meticulously maintained gray plank dock to the west of the cordoned swim area.

I try not to, but as I said: it’s a reflex.

She’s wearing a white bikini. She has two of them. White bikinis. And breasts, obviously.

Today she’s wearing the one with the halter top. The fabric plunges low between her breasts, revealing almost exactly half of each. They’re two perfectly mirrored curves of bronzed flesh, and there’s some kind of necklace on a long, thin gold chain dangling between them.

She’s stretched out on one of a pair of white upholstered chaises, her body oiled, and her eyes are hidden behind a pair of oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses. Her blonde hair is pulled up high on her head in the type of bun that looks disheveled and unintentional but takes a very deliberate process to achieve.

She’s reading a novel whose title I can’t make out, but it’s a thick mass market paperback, and there’s a wine glass on the table next to her. You can’t see it clearly from this distance, but if I had to guess I’d say it’s a very dry Prosecco, probably with vermouth and Campari and a curl of orange peel, which would be her equivalent of a Corona with lime.

I'll concede to Josh that her breasts are magnificent.

Even I would have lost my mind over them when I was 12.

I’m not, thankfully.

“That’s completely inappropriate talk for camp, Josh.” He smirks at me, which is his primary facial expression, and I make a note on the clipboard. “You’ll be joining me for KP duty this evening.”

I know that he’s going to flip me off the moment that I turn my back, and based on the way he laughs hard and loud and the nearby kids laugh perfunctorily— _resentfully_ —because Josh is not actually funny, I’m correct.

My inspections are without any similar incidents for a week.

It’s not hard to avoid looking at something if you’ve made your mind up not to.

The following Tuesday, when I walk down to the lake, I’m carrying my clipboard and a handful of Band-Aids to replenish the First Aid kit mounted to the inside wall of the boat shed.

“Get your hands off the guard stand, Josh.”

Pansy doesn’t skip a beat in her scan of the swim area when she says it. She sounds like she’s in rare form, for whatever reason, and I assume that if I wasn’t standing here she would have spoken more vividly.

Josh unprops himself from the guard stand and adjusts the drawstring to his swim trunks for what is probably the tenth time today.

“What should you be doing right now, Josh?” I push my glasses back up the bridge of my nose.

“Draco’s mom.”

Well. Fuck.

“Excuse me?” I click the button on the pen that I’m holding at my side.

“I’m waiting for a canoe.” Josh smirks, because he seems incapable of doing anything else, and I can’t say that I’ve ever disliked a person of any age more than I dislike this particular child.

“Keep talking like that, Josh. _Please._ " Pansy has finished transferring the guard station over to Neville. As she passes by Josh on her way to me, she winds the rope of her whistle around her index finger and chews on a piece of gum, both of which she manages to make vaguely threatening. "We're taking bets on who gets to call your mom first."

She comes to stand next to me, looking out at the lake, and I can smell Bubble Yum. When she finally says something, she keeps her voice low. Her discretion is one of the many things I appreciate about her. “If you don’t want a lawsuit because one of your counselors kicked a 12 year-old’s ass, you’re going to have to go over there.”

I click the pen again and examine my clipboard. “Over where?”

She doesn’t answer. I’m being obtuse and she knows it. Her perceptiveness is a little frightening, to be honest. I make a mental note to turn a blind eye to any minor bullshit she might get up to for the next month and a half.

By over there, obviously, she means the dock where the woman in the red Hermes string bikini, with shining skin and that mass of luminous blonde hair, is standing with her back in a perfect arch, dipping her toes into the lake like she would ever actually dive into it.

She has an immaculately clean, comfortably heated pool on the south side of the house if she feels like getting wet.

“She’s been out here every day. At 2:05.” Pansy’s giving me information, which I appreciate. I can tell that she’s smiling—slightly, wryly—but I don’t hate her for it.

I’d find it funny myself, if I was able to.

“Do you want me to talk to her?” she asks without looking at me.

It’s an extremely generous offer, and I should take it.

But I don’t.

“Thanks. I’ll go.”

Fucking Josh.

I walk over the following day just after lunch, which is typically the time I manage paperwork in the office.

There’s a trail set back from the edge of the lake that skirts the front drive of the Malfoys’ lake house. It’s warm today, but not overly so, and I’m grateful, having changed out of my camp shorts and into a pair of slacks.

The property is surrounded by a tasteful and unobtrusive black security fence, and I enter the code at the pedestrian entrance next to the vehicle gate.

She’ll have sent Cam, the maid that does all of the laundry and day to day cleaning and runs her errands for her, out for the afternoon, so I don’t bother ringing the doorbell. I don’t even knock.

The door’s unlocked.

The entryway is floored in slate—the bathrooms are as well, which is incredibly cold and uncomfortable against your knees, incidentally—and the rest of the house in blonde hardwood. The ceiling in the living room is vaulted, and my voice reverberates.

“Narcissa?”

I expect her to be out at the pool, but she’s in the kitchen, slicing a lemon for God knows what reason. Maybe she’s trying to come across as domestic.

She’s wearing a Missoni cover up over the other white bikini—the strapless one with brass links connecting the fabric between her breasts.

“Hello.”

God, that voice. I don’t think casual has ever— _could_ ever—sound more calculated.

The cover up slides down one polished shoulder.

I lean against the edge of the wall, trying to not be entirely in the room.

I could beat around the bush, but it doesn’t make sense to do so with her.

“Some of the kids are making comments.”

She raises her eyebrows innocently. It’s one of her softer affectations. I’d go so far as to call it cute.

She already has two glasses out, and she fills them both with ice from the dispenser on the door of the refrigerator. I’m a little surprised she knows how to use it.

She pulls a pitcher out of the fridge, and pours two glasses of lemonade. This is the purpose behind the sliced lemon, and she tucks one over the rim of each glass before walking over and handing one to me.

She’s barefoot. Her toenails have a neat French manicure.

“I made it myself.” She crosses back to the kitchen island and looks at me while she sips from her glass, slowly.

“Did you watch Cam squeeze the lemons?” I ask.

She smiles. “Every last one.”

I get straight to the point. “I’m concerned that your son is going to assault a preteen on your behalf. He's welcome to on his own time, but unfortunately I’m liable for my counselors while they're at camp.”

“Hmm.” She looks unfazed. It’s one of her many talents. “Where are you headed for law school?”

The lemonade is good. Remarkably so. And I’m quite thirsty.

“Columbia.”

She leans against the counter. “That’s wonderful.”

“Mm hm.” I walk the rest of the way into the kitchen, keeping to the other side of the island from her, and set my glass down. I look at her with what I hope comes across as sincerity. “You need to stop.”

“You’ll like New York.”

The bottom half of her bikini has brass loops at the sides to match the ones between her breasts. I perfectly recall what it’s like to slide them down her hips.

I sigh. She’s exasperating.

“I told you this was done last summer.”

She reaches up to adjust her hair. Getting it like that involves turning her head upside down, shaking her hair out and then pulling her fingers through it in long strokes.

I could watch her do it every day and never get tired of it.

There are feathery strands already loose at her nape, which become plastered to her skin when she sweats.

“Oh,” she says. “I don’t remember that.”

Narcissa Malfoy hasn’t forgotten a single thing in her entire life.

Her skin is glowing, and I wonder how close she is to getting tan lines on my behalf, which she absolutely hates.

She uses an incredibly expensive French oil on her skin. In the sun. After a bath.

It makes her taste like apricots.

“Where’s Lucius?” I know where Lucius is. I just feel like saying his name out loud. As though it would somehow make a difference.

“I’ve had the master bath redone.”

“And you think I’m going to go and look at it.”

She shrugs, and sips her lemonade. “If you’d like.”

That first summer, two years ago, I’m positive she was simply bored.

Why she thought I wouldn’t bore her even further I’ll never know. Her husband had already become embroiled beyond the hope of recovery in his dispute with the camp over the buoy line for the swim area, which is his own personal Waterloo. For some reason I must have seemed like a welcome distraction.

I’d never been with a woman like her, before then. I haven't been with one like her since.

“I hope the floors are heated.”

I don’t know why I say it, but that’s it.

Fuck.

Her glass of lemonade sits half empty, sweating on the countertop, while she’s on her knees in the middle of the kitchen floor with my cock in her mouth.

I almost let her make me come like that, but instead I end up buried inside her on the stairs with the bottom of her suit pulled to the side, which is both incredibly awkward and so hot I think I’m going to finish in her right then.

“Percy.” She grips the edge of a stair with one hand and my wrist with the other while I stroke her with two fingers, and she comes hard, like it’s been a while.

It’s petty, but I hope that it has.

In her bed, which is my second favorite out of all the places that we do this, the little hairs at the back of her neck are plastered down with sweat. I like how they feel under my hand while I fuck her from behind.

She moans, loud, and I feel her come for a second time. I understand that I’ve failed quickly, spectacularly, at staying out of her bed for another summer, but while she’s looking over her shoulder and pushing back against me, I think that perhaps it’s worth it.

She uses her mouth again, and I come on her breasts, which seems fitting.

“I have a townhouse.” Her voice is a little blurred around the edges, which makes me feel accomplished.

“Of course you do.” I look at my watch. I need to conduct the aquatics inspection soon. “Where?”

“East 74th. It's not much.”

I’ve been making lazy loops over her shoulder with the tips of my fingers, but I stop.

“Mm.” I’m quite sure I know where she’s going with this. I try to figure out how I feel about it, but all I come up with, strangely, is relief.

She pulls slowly out from my arm, and heads to the shower.

“I’ll give you a key at the end of the summer.” I watch her walking back and forth across the bathroom through the doorway. She’s getting two towels ready. There’s a bottle of my brand of shampoo in her hand.

She hasn’t developed tan lines yet. I should have made her wait a bit longer.

Fucking Josh.

“Is tee time the same?” I ask. I’m sure that it is.

“Mm hm.” I hear the shower running, and start the work of peeling myself off the bed.

He golfs. Her husband, I mean.

And while he does, I fuck his wife.


End file.
